Silver
by YnitOcelot
Summary: After a political bigwig is murdered in an alleyway outside Alban Industries, Bodie and Doyle are sent undercover to find out what exactly is going on. Things take a turn for the worse after a mysterious man calling himself 'The Doctor' turns up. Who or what is 'The Darkness? Chapter 3 up.
1. Chapter 1

Fandoms: The Professionals/Doctor Who crossover

Disclaimer: If I owned either of these shows then Tommy McKay would be still alive, and Doyle would probably get captured more.

Characters: Bodie, Doyle, the 11th Doctor and an OC

Set: Somewhere between _Dead Reckoning_ and _The Madness of Mickey Hamilton_ for the Professionals.

Somewhere between _A Christmas Carol_ and _The Impossible Astronaut_ for Doctor Who.

Summery: After a political bigwig is murdered in an alleyway outside Alban Industries, Bodie and Doyle are sent undercover to find out what exactly is going on. Things take a turn for the worse after a mysterious man calling himself 'The Doctor' turns up. Who or _what_ is 'The Darkness'?

Author's Note: The Loki Paradox is 'Non-Canon' to this story. Please enjoy.

* * *

1935

The disused mine was as black as tar; the boy stumbled along in the darkness, hot wet tears streaming down his face. In his hand he carried the remains of a flashlight, the bulb shattered into tiny jagged shards, useless, broken. His left hand still wept blood. Every so often he staggered against the wall, as if to remind himself that it was still there.

He was lost.

He was scared.

Suddenly he stumbled, the floor sloped abruptly and he wasn't prepared. Falling, he had enough presence of mind to try and roll with it; the flashlight bounced out of his slick fingers and disappeared into the shadows. Pain erupted around him and just for a moment the shadows darkened. He lay there on his side, breathing awkwardly, half sobs bubbling up from his throat. The darkness bent around him as he thought about the stupid, stupid bet and the laughs his so-called friends must be having right now…

**Child… **

The boy jerked his head around searching for the voice. Except it wasn't much like a real voice.

**Why are you crying? **

"Because I'm scared. I'm lost and alone and my hand hurts something horrid and my friends have left me –" his words were interrupted in a wet gulp.

**I would help you. But I cannot. **

"W – why?" it sounded more like a wailing hiccup than a word.

**I cannot on my own. You must help me. **

"How?"

**Touch me. **

Hesitantly, the boy reached blindly into the impenetrable darkness. His fingertips brushed something cold. "Will you be my friend?" the boy asked. There was the merest of pauses; the boy felt as if it was deliberating the word, trying it, tasting it.

**I shall always be your friend. I shall never desert you.**

* * *

1979

"Here," Cowley placed the two photographs on his desk face up. Doyle glanced at his boss before scooping them into his hand, careful not to crease them. The first one was a man in his late forties, blond hair, square jaw, muscular body running to fat; the second was a teenage girl. Doyle dully estimated that she couldn't have been more than fifteen; she had been skinny and small with soft, shoulder-length fair hair. Blood was dried around large slices cut into her stomach indicating she had been dead a while before the picture was taken. She looked very vulnerable. Bodie gently tugged the photos out of his grasp. He could sense the useless fury that was crackling up through his partner, but he had detached himself long ago so the dead teen didn't really bother him. There had been younger soldiers in Africa. But it was still a waste of a human life.

"What's this about, sir?" he asked. Cowley pointed at the man.

"Julius McIntosh, a big man in the halls of power, he was found dead in an alleyway." Bodie frowned at the picture he was holding. From what he could see the man bore no damage to his body. His face was a little puffy and his suit was ripped but there was nothing that suggested what had cut this life short.

"Cause of death?"

"Drowning, according to the coroner," Cowley answered. Frowning, Bodie tilted the picture into the light.

"That doesn't look like it's near the docks," Doyle remarked, voicing Bodie's thoughts, glancing over his partner's shoulder, "Or anywhere near the river."

"You're right," Cowley said, "they were found in Croydon, near Alban Offices." Bodie raised an eyebrow.

"The arms designer?" Cowley nodded.

"Too much of a coincidence," Doyle murmured, his gaze still on the photos, "Something's going on there."

"Murphy and Benny staked that place out for three weeks and David Alban didn't even get a parking ticket," Bodie reminded his partner imperiously, "He's clean as a whistle."

"Or looks like it."

"Yeah, yeah. That's brilliant deduction there, Sherlock." Cowley glared at his best agents as they began to fire first examples then experiences at each other.

"Nevertheless," he began, halting the heating repartee, "I want you two to check it out. I want to know exactly what is going on there." Bodie pulled a disgusted expression, Doyle mirrored him.

"Not more stakeouts!" Bodie moaned. Shaking his head, Cowley allowed a faint smile to cross his face.

"No, not more stakeouts," he agreed. Doyle frowned quizzically at his boss.

"Then what?"

"I want both of you inside Alban Industries itself. Undercover." The two agents took a moment to digest this information and Cowley continued, "You'll be working with Murphy and Jax, but I want neither of them within half a mile of the building. If Alban is up to something then I want him to have no clue that he is being watched. If he panics then we'll likely lose him."

Doyle glanced at Bodie. He was quite used to going undercover but he was already conditioned from his days as a detective constable to be another person. It was rare that both of them were sent inside. Cowley must really have an itch this time. But what he was saying made sense; Doyle had a prickly feeling in his gut that he couldn't quite ignore.

Alban Industries was too clean, too friendly, and too good, from what CI5 had experienced that usually meant that something was out of the ordinary. Especially if the deals were definitely too good to be true.

"Are we getting new jobs then, sir?" Bodie inquired. Cowley reached out a hand for the photos. He nodded.

"Alban Industries is very short-staffed at the moment, they are hiring at incredibly short notice," he indicated the door. "Your resumes have already been accepted. Bodie, you are working down in filing, and Doyle you are in the typing pool." He stared hard that the pair. "Why are you still here?"

Bodie led the way out of the office, his mind full of what they were taking on. Doyle however paused at the door.

"What about the kid?" he demanded coldly. Cowley shot him a sharp but sympathetic glance.

"Her name was Lizzie Jackson; she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

* * *

Doyle slowed his bike down and took the last turn into the Alban car park. The building skulked four floors high in front of him; it was the same nondescript grey as the buildings around it, only the wrought black gate hinted at what was done within. He tooled his bike into an empty parking space and pulled off his helmet. The security guard eyed him suspiciously, luckily for Doyle there wasn't a uniform beyond 'neat' so he wasn't required the suit-tie combo, but the red donkey jacket over the top of his normal clothes, was probably not regulation. He ambled up to the man and grinned at him. "Hi."

"Identification please, sir," the guard regarded him steadily. He was a big man; the type who could handle himself in a fight. Doyle passed it over, leaning on the hatch.

"I'm Ray Doyle," he said, still grinning, "I work here now," the man didn't answer so he continued cheerily, "awful lot of security for a small design company isn't it?" The guard handed his ID back.

"If you were designing weapons wouldn't you keep them under lock and key?"

"Yeah, but three security cameras, a huge gate and a security guard? Do I have to go through this every day?" he asked pulling a face. The man gave a look that could only be described as old-fashioned.

"First of all son, most of what goes on inside here is above a typist and I wouldn't be acting like some hot-shot just because I'm inside and," he glanced pointedly at where Doyle was leaning, "I wouldn't annoy your protection."

"Why'd I need protection?" Doyle asked quizzically. The guard rolled his eyes.

"Terrorists an' that. I'm the first line of defence against anyone wanting in here for criminal reasons," he buzzed the door open, "get in, you're going to be late."

The layout of Alban Industries was very similar to CI5 headquarters but it still took Doyle a couple of minutes to find where he was supposed to be working. He finally walked into a large room filled with desks all in tidy rows and populated with both men and women, some typing furiously, and others leaning against the walls chatting. Doyle slipped in and found himself an empty desk and typewriter. As soon as he sat down one of the women walked in from another room and dumped a large, messy pile of paper beside him. He groaned. Alban wrote really, really small.

After about an hour of stabbing random keys in the hope that what he was writing made sense, Doyle was tapped on the shoulder by a young, angular-faced man. He paused in what he was doing and turned around. "Hello, do you work here?"

"Yeah, why?" he asked. The man extended his hand; Doyle noticed the slight trembling in the fingers.

"My name's Drake, James Drake. I'm – I'm a reporter," Doyle raised an eyebrow. The voice was loud; not quite a shout but not quite talking, with faint tinges of an accent he didn't recognise.

"Doyle," he answered, not taking the hand, "What newspaper?"

"Uh, none, I'm freelance."

"That can't be good for the bank," Drake smiled bemusedly.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Can't be good for the bank, you know, money an' that?" Doyle repeated slowly, flashing a lopsided grin.

"Oh, oh, right," Drake's smile became genuine, and he dropped his hand to his side, "I manage."

"Why are you here?" The young man ran a hand through his sandy hair.

"I'm doing a piece on 'Unsung Heroes,'" he said, "Mr Alban has been doing low-level weapon and chemical designs which have contributed to more widely used ones, he's never really taken the credit for it." Doyle pursed his lips and asked,

"Why are you talking to me about this? If it's Alban you're writing about then shouldn't you be talking to him?"

"I'm also getting a… view from the trenches, you know? A sort of complete picture of his operation here, so –"

"Excuse me, Mr Drake, the tea is ready," Both Doyle and Drake turned towards the soft, mellow voice. The man addressing the reporter was about his mid-fifties with a full head of grey hair, astute hazel eyes and a frame that once been skinny but had filled out with age. He smiled at Drake in an I've-been-waiting-and-the-tea-is-getting-cold way. "I'm sure that…" he glanced at Doyle's face, obviously not recognising him continued, "my staff needs to finish quite a lot of paperwork."

"Sorry Mr Alban," Drake stepped away from Doyle, the agent caught an air of annoyance coming from the man as he walked off with their suspect. He narrowed his eyes. Something didn't fit here.

* * *

It was another half an hour before Doyle had an opportunity to slip away to meet Bodie, his mind still puzzling over the strange jigsaw that had been throwing him new pieces that were all sky. He clattered down the steps, precariously balancing a stack of neatly typed paper (none of it his). Since he was the 'newbie' it was his job to try and totter down three flights of stairs down to the basement for filing. He'd just reached the first floor when a man crashed into him going at full tilt up the stairs. The paper flew everywhere and both men were knocked to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and slightly torn reports. Doyle landed hard on his backside and swore. From the sounds of the other, more complicated, cursing he judged that the other man hadn't fared much better. He pulled himself to his feet and offered his hand. "You alright?" The young man took his hand and scrambled up, his arms and legs still flailed wildly so it looked more like a suspended collapse.

"Yes, yes, I'm ok, just a bit of overexciteness – is that a word? It should be a word – there," he spotted the devastation of paper and began scrabbling for it. Doing so meant the strange man nearly ended up in a heap again. "Sorry, sorry, sorry! I'll help…" Doyle held out his hand to signal that he stopped.

"No, it's fine," the man looked like a manic bunny rabbit, he was still fidgeting with his hands when he was bent over and still, "I can probably manage by myself," the man straightened up, brushing his floppy brown hair of out of his eyes. Doyle estimated that he was in his mid-twenties and just taller than Bodie. What struck the agent was that he was wearing a tweed suit and suspenders, even a bowtie! He didn't look like a clerk or typist, and definitely not a designer of weapons. He reminded Doyle of an absent-minded professor.

"Are you sure?" Professor asked. Doyle nodded, still on his hands and knees. Professor shrugged and helpfully gathered a few of the reports near him into an easily accessible pile. Then he hared off up the stairs, lesson evidently not learned. Doyle turned his attention back to the rest of the scattered paper. He sighed.

"What did you do to these? Throw them down the stairs?" Bodie exclaimed.

"Something like that," Doyle winced, Bodie raised his eyebrows and Doyle quickly recounted his encounter on the stairway and Bodie chuckled.

"Sounds like the bloke who was in here earlier, I didn't talk to him but I overheard him telling one of the girls that he was a Health Inspector." Doyle snorted.

"Yeah," he said, "really healthy." Bodie grinned back at him before becoming more serious.

"Listen, apparently some people think Alban acts a bit strangely, he is always the last out at night and the first in before anyone else," Doyle pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Could just be dedicated," his tone of voice suggested otherwise. Bodie nodded slowly.

"Something strange is going on here," he grinned slowly, "up for a bit of B&E?"

* * *

Again, like the Loki Paradox this will be put up in chapters. Reviews please?


	2. Chapter 2

The parade of streetlamps illuminated the street in harsh spotlights. Alban Industries sat in semi-darkness, impenetrable and forbidding. The gates cast a long shadow across the empty car park, the windows stared like merciless eyes, and the security cameras clicked and whirred quietly as they steadily and faithfully stored the images for later scrutiny. There was no guard.

To a casual observer this would appear as carelessness, oversight perhaps, but to the two black-clothed figures moving cautiously along the pavement it was wrong; suspicious. They shared a quick glance. With a hurried pace they moved up to the edge of the car park. "I don't like this," Doyle muttered darkly. Bodie shrugged.

"Easier for us, I suppose."

"Could be a trap."

"Could be," Bodie conceded, "but we won't find out just standing here. C'mon." He led the way to the blind spot that he'd noticed earlier, "watch your step." Doyle followed, checking to see if they were still alone. They'd left Bodie's car three streets over, trusting to fact that they would be able to evade any pursuers if things got too hot. Murphy was their backup and both men were confident in his ability. Bodie tugged experimentally at the gate. "Locked," he whispered. Doyle raised an eyebrow.

"'Course it is. Alban isn't stupid."

"Forgot about a guard through."

"He could have gone home." Neither of them really believed that, but Bodie conceded with;

"Yeah." Squinting, Bodie estimated that the gate was about two and a half metres high. Gesturing to Doyle he asked, "Bring your climbing gear?"

They made quick work of the gate, landing quietly on the other side. Nothing moved. Bodie glanced over at Doyle and shrugged. Two torches flashed out. They moved forward cautiously, their eyes darting in the shadows. They crept into the lobby to find it empty. A single desk greeted them with a corridor leading off to the stairs; the entire scene was lit by one flickering bulb. "Well, Scooby-Doo, should we split up?" Bodie asked, still scouring the lobby, his ears strained for any sound of approaching footsteps. Doyle was about to reply with an affirmative when he remembered the lack of a guard. He shook his head.

"No, that never ends well, does it?" the teasing tone faltered at the last syllable but Bodie didn't appear to have noticed as he began to lead the way towards the stairs. He paused on the landing.

"Files or Alban's office?" he asked, looking up and down the stairway. Doyle tilted his head to one side.

"What do you think?" Bodie gave a rueful smile and shrugged. He pointed towards the steps.

"Onwards and upwards."

The eeriness of the seemingly abandoned building was getting to Doyle; maybe it was just the fact that he wasn't happy sneaking around like a thief – once a copper, always a copper – or maybe it was the fact that it was _too_ easy. With no guard and no cameras inside the building; the security was pitiful at best. Perhaps Alban wasn't even aware of how terrible his safety measures were and the plans were just being stolen by enterprising thieves. No, Doyle allowed a wry grin to grace his lips, he felt it in his bones, the same way he felt the almost imperceptible wrongness of this building and the darkness all around them. He knew Bodie could feel it too; a prickle of danger that set every trained sense screaming – but he couldn't see anything that warranted that kind of caution. That undoubtedly made it all the worse; for who could fight an enemy that they couldn't even see? It was the sensation of being watched, stalked, hunted by an invisible threat. Maybe there was a reason that there wasn't any guard…

At this point Doyle told his imagination to shut up.

* * *

They ascended the stairs warily, the torches probing around each corner until they finally reached the top floor. Bodie was the one to push open the door leading into the sketching room; this was where the idea were fed and built on, neither Doyle or Bodie had been in here before but Doyle had been told by one of his co-workers that Alban worked (and lived he'd added cheerfully) on the top floor in his own office through the 'drawing floor'. The room was lined with desks; they were bigger and better quality than any of the others in the typing pool, each one had a large easel behind or beside it. Some had blank, fresh paper pinned up on the surface – ready for the next day of work. The pair wove their way along the row, hearts thumping with waiting adrenaline. They were only half-way across the room when a clatter rang out from the office. Immediately both men propelled themselves out of sight beneath separate desks, their hands reaching for their absent guns. From his crouched position Doyle could just make out a shadow moving around behind the smoked glass, it bobbed around and Doyle suspected that whoever this person was they'd had the same idea as them. Bodie caught his eye and pointed at the door; _should we go in_? Doyle waggled his hand in response; _maybe_. They waited, coiling themselves into a state of readiness, like wolves about to pounce. They were still silently debating whether to go in when the door was flung open with a hastily quietened gasp of "Oops!"

A bolt of recognition shot through Doyle, electrifying his muscles. The Professor scurried past, fixing his bowtie with one hand and holding a… device in the other. He was muttering to himself, his young face animated and twisted into an expression of bemusement. He walked right past the two agents and reached the door. Bodie motioned with his hand; _get him_. Both men emerged from their hiding places and began to stalk towards the man. He stopped at the door. He started to turn. Bodie and Doyle leapt forwards. Bodie grabbed the man's arm, wrenching it up behind his back, and whipping the device out of his hand. He spun the Professor around, ignoring his protests. "Hold on, hold on," he stammered. It wasn't a stammer brought on by fear, Doyle realised; it was more that his mouth was being put on hold by his brain. "I can explain –"

"We've heard them all before, son," Bodie replied, "just come quietly and I won't have to break your arm." The man stared at him for a moment before resuming his objections as the pair began to push him out into the stairwell.

"No, no! Wait! You've got to put me down! It's important!" Bodie twisted his arm harder but it did nothing to cease the babble spilling from his mouth. Doyle followed behind them, twirling the device in his hand. It was a metallic bronze-gold colour with what looked like some kind of greenish bulb fitted between four silver claws. It was strange, and when he cautiously pressed one of the buttons (first taking great care to point it away from himself, Bodie, their prisoner or anything that looked remotely breakable) it gave a high-pitched buzz and a green light. The Professor glanced back and quickly hissed; "Please be careful with that." He stopped and then as if the question had only occurred to him, he asked; "Who am I being arrested by?"

"CI5," Doyle answered coldly. The man nodded and Doyle got the feeling that he would've smacked himself in the forehead, "Of course! George Cowley!"

"Shut up," Bodie said, "you can cry all you want to him later."

They were nearly at the ground floor now; the Professor was finally silent, just seemingly thinking about his predicament. They passed some of the typist's rooms and Doyle suddenly stiffened. "What is it?" Bodie asked quietly.

"Movement," Doyle whispered. Bodie nodded, shifting slightly to make sure the Professor didn't try anything. His gaze was fixed on Doyle appraisingly.

"Guard?" Doyle shook his head. He began to creep carefully towards the door as noiselessly as a cat. Bodie remained behind. He creaked open the door, wincing at the sound. The man in the room didn't even notice, so intent was he on checking the pieces of paper that spilled from his hands. His lips moved silently as he read what was on the report. Doyle stepped up behind him.

"Hello James." Drake whirled around, surprise etched on his face, his brown eyes wide.

"D-Doyle!" he faltered. Doyle took a hold of his arm and twisted it up the same way as their other prisoner.

"Freelance not paying well?" he asked sweetly. Drake shook his head.

"This is not what it looks like! I'm not a thief!" Doyle rolled his eyes and pushed the man forwards.

"Never said that." 

Cowley stepped out of the interrogation rooms, annoyance clear on his face. "He's got an alibi." Doyle frowned at him.

"What?"

"He's the scientific advisor for UNIT; he's got the same clearance we do." Doyle almost laughed out loud so ridiculous was the statement.

"Him?!" Cowley nodded, placing his glasses back on his face. He caught Cowley's expression and a scowl appeared on his pugnacious face, "Don't tell me we have to work with him!" Cowley didn't even need to answer and Doyle groaned.

"That's enough Doyle! He's already gathered some evidence and I've spoken to the PM, he insists." Doyle followed him down the hall, "What have we got on the other man?" Bodie appeared from one of the holding cells just in time to hear the question.

"James Percy Drake, what he told Doyle is true, he's a freelance reporter; he's investigating for the same reasons we were." Cowley nodded.

"So, I think we can use this to our advantage… what was he doing in the building?"

"When we found him, or earlier?"

"Earlier Bodie!" Bodie raised his eyebrows at Doyle before answering;

"Err… he was snooping around under the pretence of doing –"

"An article," Doyle finished – much to Bodie's irritation – "He told me about it." he added hastily as Cowley glared at him. Rubbing his hands together, Cowley turned to face his two best agents.

"I know what we're going to do. You two will go back to work and continue looking around. Mr Drake will come with you and continue doing what he was doing. The Doctor will… do whatever he does. Bodie gaped at him.

"Why do we?..." Doyle fixed his partner with a mournful look.

"The PM insists." 

"Hello again," the Doctor strode out of the interrogation room rubbing his arm. Neither Bodie nor Doyle answered him. "Ah, sorry, we got off on the wrong foot, didn't we? I'm the Doctor," he offered his hand. Bodie gave it a disdainful look. He withdrew it shrugging before brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I was hoping that Mr Cowley would drop the case but I suppose I can't expect that."

"No."

"What have you got?" Doyle jumped in quickly to avoid any escalating unpleasantness. Bodie was still glaring at the Doctor in a very unfriendly fashion and Doyle recognised that. Usually Bodie only unleashed that mood on MI6 agents for which Doyle could hardly fault him.

"Very, very far!" Doyle raised his eyebrow questioningly which prompted the Doctor to say, "sort of far… actually not very far at all because I'm not investigating the same thing you are."

"What?..." Bodie asked but before the Doctor could answer Drake sidled up to them. He was glancing around looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Um… I'm ready when you lot are," he announced in his clumsily loud voice. Bodie sighed theatrically. He motioned with his hand towards the exit and the Doctor rubbed his hands together with an air of excitement.

"Right! Follow me!" he marched off, took a wrong turning and walked into another room then came back out with a sheepish grin on his face. "Err, which way is out again?" Both Bodie and Doyle pointed to the stairs, "thank you." He was almost out of sight when Drake hesitantly followed him up the stairs. Doyle glanced over at Bodie.

"We're working with a soddin' circus."

"Too right sunshine." They walked on after the pair.

* * *

"I don't like this. Someone was here last night."

**How do you mean? **

"My desk has been ransacked and the files are mixed up."

**The work of an amateur**.

"They could be on to me – onto us. Whoever it is, they could ruin it…"

**Do not worry friend. It is tonight. They cannot stop us before tonight and then… I will be with you. **

"I know, I know… I just… well, you know me. I'm a worrier."

**Keep an eye on the man who was here yesterday. **

"Who? James Drake?"

**No. The **_**other**_** one. John Smith. **

"Why? I mean, he's hardly threat is he? He can't be more than, what… twenty seven or twenty eight? Besides, he's a twig!"

**He smells wrong. He smells… familiar. **

"Alright. I'll keep an eye on him. It'll be done soon and then we'll be together. You'll be free."

**Freedom. I have dreamed this for so long my friend. Just a few more hours David. Just a few more hours and I'll be free.**

* * *

"What do you know about David Alban?" Doyle blinked at the Doctor who was sitting opposite him with a clipboard in his hand. They had done another day of 'work', the Doctor had signed himself in with an I.D card which he had very casually not shown to any of them before settling in the typists' room. Settled was the wrong word, Doyle had decided by about lunch time. He was like a child, constantly fidgeting and running up to random things going "ooh, that's interesting." It was getting annoying. Bodie had been right. They were working in a circus. Drake hadn't been much better either but he'd gone off to poke around downstairs in the lobby.

Doyle closed his eyes and tried to recall the neat writing in the file that he'd been handed by Cowley.

"David Henry Alban: born in Wales in 1926, left school at eighteen and joined the army as an engineer in 1944. Never went into combat because of a pre-existing medical condition," here Doyle paused as he attempted to remember what the problem was before amending, "something to do with his lungs or heart or… I can't remember. Anyway, he very quickly became the favoured brainchild before leaving aged thirty six to establish Alban Industries in 1962. Seventeen years later he's top of the tree and practically untouchable. No history of criminal behaviour or dubious activities. He's clean."

"So how did you lot yet involved then?" the Doctor asked. "CI5 doesn't investigate 'clean' men. C'mon, what's the problem?" Doyle shrugged.

"Nothing much but a coupla weapons were turning up from our cases that were not on the market yet. Then McIntosh was found dead near here and Cowley got an itch."

"And he needs to scratch it." Doyle grinned.

"Yeah," he said. The Doctor settled back in his chair and suddenly asked, "Can I have my sonic back?"

"No." the Doctor looked put-out.

"What about if I say the magic word? _Please_ can I have my sonic screwdriver back?"

"No. We've been over this about twelve times to my reckoning. I'm under orders." The Doctor pouted grumpily. "Alright," Doyle said, "Why are you interested?" The Doctor opened his mouth a few times before stopping and thinking about it. He seemed to be debating with himself on what to say.

"Well," he began, "well, weeelll…"

"Well what?" Doyle asked, exasperated. The Doctor leaned in towards him and started talking at twice the normal speed.

"I picked up a strong psi-morphic signal coming from this building. Now that's impossible. This is 1979 and the first of the Psi-Stones weren't recognised as a creative source until the year 5983 even though they've been hitting Earth for centuries. They tend to burn up inside the atmosphere but some make it through. It is feasible that a harness could be created from available resources but it would be highly unstable and unable to kick-start more than one thing." The Doctor's hands were gesticulating madly as he spoke and it seemed almost as if he'd forgotten he was even talking to someone. "So that means whatever has it needs it for one big push but what? A weapon? No, no, plenty of weapons here, no, a big weapon – nuclear? Maybe. But why would it want to destroy London? A Slitheen? Nope, told 'em not to come back didn't I? Anyway, it's not their style. A form? A doorway? Maybe it wants to make a portal? Nah can't be that. There wouldn't be enough time for it to stabilise before collapsing." He blinked and then focused on Doyle who was staring at him with a horrified blankness.

"You. Are. Insane." Doyle stated bluntly, backing away. The Doctor shrugged.

"I'm a madman in a box but that hasn't been a problem before." Doyle opened his mouth to reply when a bell rang. "What was that?"

"End of the working day," Doyle informed him, still making sure there was enough space between him and the Doctor. He and the Doctor waited until everyone had left, just taking a long time to gather their things to divert any attention away from them. When everyone had left Doyle pulled his gun out of his jacket. The Doctor gave it a disgusted look.

"Do you really need that?" Doyle didn't even look at him.

"Yes."

"Violence doesn't solve anything, you know."

"You know, I used to believe that," Doyle sighed. 

It was another five minutes before the area was clear enough for Doyle to get downstairs to catch Bodie. The four of them had agreed to stay behind inside the building to save the trouble of trying to sneak in again. Leaving the Doctor to go find Drake and making sure the sonic was in his pocket Doyle walked sedately down the steps acting as natural as possible. He'd reached the corridor in the basement without any fuss when he suddenly heard a clatter from inside the filing room. There was a startled shout which abruptly cut off. Adrenalin surged through him and with barely a conscious thought he started sprinting towards the door. He crashed into it, bounced off and fell on his face. Desperately he scrambled to his feet and shoulder-charged it again. Again it remained firm. He tried for a third time – a fourth. "Bodie!" he yelled frantically as he hit the door for the fifth time. He reversed up and ran full-pelt into the wood. It splintered around the lock and he hit the ground rolling, his gun at the ready. The room was empty except for a single chair and a mess of paper.

Bodie was gone.

* * *

Dun dun dunn! Reviews please? Pretty please?


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all for bearing with me while I struggled through finishing this chapter. Thanks to everyone for reading this and a special mention to Sylvie Orp for reviewing this. More reviews please?

* * *

It wasn't possible. Doyle slowly rose to his feet, his gaze darting to every corner of the medium sized room. It looked completely normal apart from the overturned chair and the storm of paper. The room was vaguely rectangular, lined with shelves of files, with a few scattered tables and chairs. There was no other entrance or exit than what he had just broken through. Disbelievingly, Doyle let his gaze travel along the chaos until it came to a leather jacket lying forlornly on the ground. Checking that he was alone, Doyle holstered his gun and knelt down beside the jacket. You didn't need to be a genius to figure out who it belonged to. He picked it up and draped it over a nearby chair, his hairs on his neck prickling with an unidentified tension. Something was very wrong here. It had been Bodie's voice he'd heard, there was no denying it. There had also been no denying the tinges of fear either. And now he had simply vanished – into thin air – as if he had never existed at all. Doyle cast his gaze about the room for a second time, fighting to keep the panic from surfacing. How could this have happened? Where was Bodie?

There was a sudden crash from behind him and he whirled – his gun raised without intervention from his brain. The door lifted on its hinges and absently Doyle realised it must have swung shut behind him. The door swelled again and Doyle steadied himself, ready for the bastards who had taken Bodie. _Boom_. His finger whitened on the trigger, sweat gathering clammily between his knuckles. _Boom_.

The door burst open and two figures tumbled out and landed in a tangled heap on the floor, one of them shouting, "Don't shoot!"

It took nearly all of Doyle's self-control to lower his weapon to his side, his heart still hammering at a hundred miles per hour. The Doctor and Drake scrambled to untangle themselves, Drake cursing quietly under his breath. The Doctor was proving to be one of the clumsiest people either of them had ever met. After two or three false starts Drake managed to free his legs and help the Doctor to his feet. Doyle ignored them, electing to go back over the 'crime scene'; his mind spinning with rapidly darkening _if_s. He crouched down again, his gaze darting franticly to try and connect some clue. "What are you doing?" Drake asked. Doyle didn't even look around.

"Bodie's gone," he snapped. "He was in here, I heard him," he didn't add that he'd heard him yell. Drake glanced at the Doctor, who moved forwards until he was beside Doyle.

"Are you sure?"

"That's his jacket," Doyle said flatly, pointing at the garment. "He was working down here, remember?" He looked up, his face hard. "Didn't you hear him?" The Doctor shook his head.

"Sorry," he said gently, "I wasn't close enough. Drake?" Drake copied him. An almost ashamed look skimmed across his face.

"Sorry Doyle," he cast his gaze around the small room, "How? There's no other entrance." Doyle stared at him. Before he could voice the scathing shout that was bubbling up in his throat, the Doctor jumped in.

"Shh, both of you!" Riled at being told to be quiet, Doyle shouted at Drake;

"I know there isn't another entrance!"

"I was just trying to be helpful – "

"You can bloody shut up! Bodie's missing!"

"But I was just saying – "

"Fingers on lips!" The Doctor ordered sharply. Both men froze at the strange command and turned to face the Doctor. Drake's hand crept towards his mouth. Doyle clenched his fist by his side. The Doctor regarded them. "Good. Right, first things first, we need to find the secret passageway." Drake stared the weird young man.

"Why would there be…" he started. The Doctor had already rushed off to the shelves full of files and was pulling them out with the air of a distracted child. Drake stepped up behind the Doctor. "Why would Alban have a secret passageway? This isn't some Sherlock Holmes novel!" The Doctor didn't turn around from his task.

"Don't diss Sherlock Holmes! I gave Arthur Conan Doyle the idea. Besides, there isn't another obvious exit so logically there must be a hidden one. Also, since Doyle was outside and heard…" his manic, rapid-fire delivery faltered slightly as Doyle's storm cloud darkened, "Bodie. It would have to have been very quick; you got here pretty fast, didn't you?"

"I hit the door four or five times before it opened," Doyle said as he tried to quench his anger and fear. Being overwrought and distracted wasn't going to help Bodie. "They wouldn't have had time to take him very far." The Doctor nodded almost approvingly.

"You're not a relative by any chance?"

Faintly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject Doyle managed to stammer out; "n – no, I don't think so – how's this helping Bodie?" a waspish snap closed on the question mark.

The Doctor disregarded this last question instead opting to continue with his observations, "So logically it must have been close by and in an easy-to-access place… I'd imagine that it would be very hard to get Bodie to go somewhere he didn't want to go. A secret passage way would be useful if you wanted to hide something because, well, come on! How many people would think of that?"

"Like a stakeout," Doyle had managed to get a grip on himself. Bodie could handle himself – he'd proved that many times before. Before he had time to clarify what exactly the Doctor meant a loud _thunk!_ echoed through the room making Drake jump about three feet in the air and Doyle reach for his gun. The Doctor stepped back, a large grin spreading across his face. His hand was still on the length of string attached to a small hook. A large section of the floor smoothly hinged and dropped away revealing a dark square hole. Doyle leaned forwards cautiously and saw a silvery ladder falling away into the reddish-black depths. The Doctor swaggered up beside him.

"Besides, a secret passageway is just cool."

* * *

Fuzzily, Bodie opened his eyes. Even the dull lighting sent glass shards into his brain and his eyes screwed shut again. When he thought that he could take it he let his eyelids flutter open again. He found himself staring at a red-bricked wall. He blinked. Slowly he turned to head to see that he was surrounded by three more walls. A drop of water splashed on his head and instinctively he moved his hand to wipe it off. A loud jingle caught his attention and he glanced down at himself. His hands were shackled to the ground with a pair of heavy, rusted manacles. "This is bad." Bodie glanced up at the open square of light about seven or eight feet above him. "This is very bad."

* * *

The Doctor dropped ineptly to the ground. His feet splashed into the thin covering of water – at least he suspected it was water – and he moved aside to allow Doyle to land somewhat more gracefully. Drake came last; his hands gripping the metal like his life depended on it. Doyle tugged him impatiently to the ground, grimacing as Drake sent a wave of dirty water slopping over the hems of his jeans. Drake noticed and winced. "Sorry." The Doctor was staring around them with a satisfied this-is-more-like-it grin on his face. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and scrutinised the red brick red tunnels that meandered off in several different directions and the slowly flowing water. His eyes narrowed. Purposely he turned and held out his hand.

"Give me my screwdriver please." Doyle regarded him warily, his hand clasping the device inside his pocket. The Doctor sighed. "I promise it isn't a weapon and I'm not going to hurt either of you." Doyle still didn't make a move and the Doctor knew that Doyle thought he was a nutter. He closed his eyes and said in a soft tone that was as unthreatening as possible, "If you want to rescue Bodie you're going to have to give me the sonic. You'll never find him without my help and for that I'll need it." It was a bit below the belt and Doyle's eyes flashed warningly.

"Why? How do you know where he is?"

"I don't," the Doctor tried to reassure him – painfully aware of the weaponry that one Raymond Doyle had about his person – "I'm not working for Alban or anything, remember? UNIT? The Psi-Stones? I can detect them with the sonic and I'm betting that Alban would've taken him to wherever they are. You've got to trust me." Doyle glared at him and the Doctor could read the doubt and the worry and hope that skimmed across his face in an almost unreadable swirl. With a dark finality Doyle pulled the sonic out of his pocket and handed it to him. The Doctor's fingers closed reverently around it and he thumbed the button. The crystal on the end lit up in a blaze of green and all three of them winced as it shattered their developing night vision. The Doctor cocked his head to one side almost as if he was listening to the device before pointing down one of the tunnels. "This way," he said. He began to walk off, his feet splattering in the centimetre high stream and he was closely followed by Doyle. Drake hesitated momentarily, debating whether to follow them into the dimly lit maze or to go back to the light and safety. He glanced up and with a jolt he realised that the hatch had closed up behind them. He dithered hurriedly before his reporter's instinct and a good dose of fear of the dark won out. He ran after the diminishing figures.

Doyle didn't know where the Doctor was leading them, but he did know that he was horribly, hopelessly lost. The Doctor was scampering ahead and every so often pausing at a new turn or branch of tunnel to shake his sonic screwdriver and stare at it before changing his direction. His face – from what Doyle could see – was boyishly focussed like a child learning to ride a bike. Drake was walking just behind Doyle, every so often almost sprinting to keep up. Doyle hated this; when Drake was falling behind it meant Doyle couldn't see him anymore, so each time he sprinted up Doyle had to restrain himself from pulling his gun on him. Finally Drake decided it was probably safer to be with Doyle and managed to pace himself to match him. They walked on in silence for a while before Drake asked; "did he say he met Arthur Conan Doyle?" Doyle shrugged, ears still pricked for the faintest sign of movement and said,

"I'm not sure the Doctor is entirely… sane."

The strange sensation of being watched was back and Doyle could keenly feel the shivers running up and down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising and suddenly, inexplicitly he was very, very jumpy. Drake hadn't seemed to have noticed – or if he had he was incredibly good at hiding it.

"D'you think Alban found this or built it?" The Doctor had dropped back now and he heard Drake's question.

"I'm betting he found it, London has hundreds of these tunnels underneath it," he smiled a little and added almost to himself, "If you build it he will come."

"What?" Doyle asked, temporarily thrown. "What are you on about?" The Doctor glanced at him.

"_Field of Dreams_ – it's a film… oh yeah, you wouldn't have seen it, would you? It doesn't come out until 1989." Doyle gawked at him.

"What the hell are you on about? That's ten years away!" The Doctor grinned sheepishly and said,

"Just go see it. The ending will make you cry." Doyle fixed him with a look that said 'I don't cry'. The Doctor returned it with a look that stated 'I don't believe you'. Doyle sighed and turned away.

"Can we just get on with finding Bodie?" he ground out. He stepped off to one side, stumbled as his foot caught on something long and thin. He staggered forwards and almost lost his balance, only catching himself on the tunnel wall. He looked down. A tangle of wires stretched out in the water, they looked like strands of dark hair interwoven in a complicated weave. Drake reached out his hand, fascinated by the tiny dots of white light – almost invisible underneath the murky water – that danced up and down it when the Doctor snapped,

"Don't touch it!" Drake withdrew his hand sharply and Doyle gave him a scornful look. Shouldn't he know not to touch unidentified wires? _Especially_ those in water. The Doctor was kneeling in the water beside it, ignoring the water soaking into his trousers.

"What is it?"

"I don't know…" the Doctor murmured, the sonic already buzzing along the length of it. Doyle tracked its progress away into the darkness. It was long. It was long enough that it disappeared out of sight. The Doctor shook his screwdriver and started to technobabble. Doyle didn't pay much attention; instead he was peering into the shadows, his sense of wrongness crackling through his limbs like lightening. Dimly, he heard the Doctor warn him to step back because "it might not like this." The wire sparked and screamed in protest, both the Doctor and Doyle winced, and then fell silent. "That wasn't meant to happen…" the Doctor said confusedly. A deep, thundering din suddenly started to pulse in Doyle's ears. Foreboding eating at his guts he slowly turned to survey the wide tunnel in front of them. The thunder grew louder and he was sure he could hear snapping noises interspersed within it. He squinted harder into the darkness. Both Drake and the Doctor were looking the wrong direction. A glow appeared out of the gloom and began to quickly increase in size – Doyle's eyes widened with fear.

"RUN!" he yelled. The Doctor spun around to see why and immediately his legs sprang into action of their own accord, throwing him down the tunnel. Drake perplexedly glanced at them as they tore past.

"What's wro –" he started, before Doyle seized his arm and dragged him along with them. He looked back and let out a gasp of terror. He speeded up, almost keeping pace with Doyle and the Doctor. They ran.

The wave of electricity surged behind them in a huge unstoppable wall.

Already Doyle could feel the electrons nipping at his heels; feel the charges attacking his back. The electricity arched, attracted to the metal around them. Drake glanced back and staggered – half blinded – before Doyle pulled him onwards. The Doctor cast his gaze around wildly but it was Doyle suddenly changed direction. He shoved the other two into the tiny side tunnel and under the cover. Burning electrons danced on his skin, in his hair, his eyes and he gritted his teeth against the pain. Someone yelped. Doyle hurled himself into the meagre safety, half-expecting his life to start flashing before his eyes. The surge of electricity swept onto them.

* * *

Bodie strained against his restraints, sweat coating his forehead. The chains jangled but refused to yield. He gulped air and tried again before he slumped back down in his prison, exhausted. The chains may have been rusty but they weren't breakable. He let his head rest on the damp brick wall behind him. The loud sparking noise had shocked him out of his trance-like state and he had suddenly been overpowered with the determined urge to get free. He knew it was impossible. Bodie closed his eyes. Doyle would be looking for him he knew, the stubborn little bugger wouldn't leave him here to rot – would he? Bodie almost laughed. No, Doyle's conscience wouldn't let him… unless something had happened to him. Bodie had no recollection of what happened after he had been grabbed by… one of Alban's goons he guessed. There was no way an old man like him would've been able to hit him hard enough to knock him out. But Doyle would've been on his way down… a spike of alarm shot through Bodie's stomach; if Alban had managed to snatch Doyle as well...

Doyle could be as imprisoned as he was – or worse. With a burning sense of renewed vigour Bodie glanced up at the square above his head. He had to get out here.

* * *

Doyle slowly raised his head and coughed. Dizzily, he crawled out from behind the wooden shelter and started patting himself down. To his surprise he found he was still in one piece. "Is everyone alright?" he asked. The Doctor eased himself out and flopped onto his back.

"What was that?" Drake asked blearily.

"Looked like lightning," Doyle answered; Drake glanced over at him and clapped a hand over his mouth. Doyle glared at him. "What?" Drake shook his head, trying to smother his laughter. Doyle raised his hand to his head. Tiny hairs stuck to his hand and he sighed. Before Drake could get in a jab the Doctor said,

"That wasn't real electricity."

"It felt like it," Doyle muttered, trying in vain to flatten his hair so it didn't stick out ubiquitously. Drake sniggered quietly at the agent as he attempted to earth himself. The Doctor hauled himself upright and pulled a face at the state of his tweed jacket.

"We should be dead," he stated simply, "that should've killed us – would've killed us. But it didn't. Why?" Drake moved his shoulders inside his khaki jacket. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat.

"We're alive, so does it really matter? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that." The Doctor shook his head and held up his finger.

"Always look a gift horse in the mouth! It could be very important, couldn't it Doyle?"

"Hmm?" Doyle was checking his gun; it didn't seem to have been affected by the strange wave. He glanced up when he realised the Doctor was talking to him. "Yeah," he agreed absently. The Doctor didn't seem to really take what he was saying as he continued.

"If it had been real electricity we would've been fried almost immediately. Water is a brilliant conductor, and we were standing in a couple of centimetres of it! Besides, have either of you lot ever seen electricity move like that?"

"I've seen some strange things but never anything like that," Doyle muttered. Drake shook his head.

"Me neither."

"That's because it wasn't real electricity. When I sonicked the wire I must have tripped a safety feature. The energy was the fail-safe or perhaps an Antivirus system. It looked and," he glanced quickly at Doyle, "felt like real electricity. But it wasn't. It acted like it, except for the water." His face fell abruptly and he suddenly looked a lot older. "Oh no…" he breathed.

"What?" Doyle asked, his voice coming out harsh. The Doctor shook his head quickly.

"It might be ok, it might be an automatic response… hopefully it was automatic…" he murmured to himself. Doyle grabbed his shoulder.

"And if it wasn't automatic?" he asked. His voice was dangerously soft and the Doctor gulped. Doyle stared at him, his green eyes burning with displaced fear. Carefully, the Doctor removed Doyle's hand from his shoulder and said,

"Alban now knows that we're here." Doyle stepped back, his face pugnacious in the dim lighting.

"Bodie," he said hotly. He backed up into the main tunnel and located the wire. He pointed down the tunnel system. If the wires were connected to some dangerous device then their best bet was to follow it. Of course Alban could be holding Bodie somewhere completely different in this maze. "This way," he ordered, trying not to let the helplessness show, and broke into a run, drawing his weapon. Drake glanced over at the Doctor who lifted his shoulders helplessly and they began to sprint after the rapidly-disappearing CI5 agent.

"Doyle! Wait!" Hearing the tone Doyle reluctantly slowed his pace to allow Drake to catch up. "Doyle..." without warning Doyle suddenly spun around and pinned him up against the wall.

"What's your play?" Eyes rolling from panic, Drake stammered,

"What – what do you mean?"

"What are you really doing here?" Doyle pressed harder and Drake let out a little yelp of surprise and pain.

"I told you, I'm a reporter! That's true!" Drake faltered. Doyle rolled his eyes and increased the pressure for the second time.

"How come you didn't hear Bodie? I heard you tell the Doctor you were closer. You should've heard him." Drake glared at him and abruptly shouted,

"I'm deaf, alright? I don't like people knowing about it!" Releasing him, Doyle gawked at him.

"But you can hear me!" Drake shrugged his jacket back onto his shoulders and gave him an angry stare. In the tones of someone having to explain something for the hundredth time Drake said, "being deaf doesn't mean you can't hear anything at all, you idiot. I'm only moderately deaf – I can still hear people but I have to be concentrating. The reason I didn't hear Bodie or the electricity-death-wave was that I wasn't listening for it!"

"So…"

"I can lip-read if I'm really having trouble and the dim lighting certainly doesn't help," Drake motioned down the tunnel, "shall we get moving or wait for the Doctor to catch up?"

"Hey, what's this?" The Doctor slowed at Drake's question. He had his hand flat against the wall, confusion clouding his face. Drake looked up at him, "Feels like…" he rubbed the brick, his finger dipping into the engravings, "writing. There's something written here." The Doctor directed the sonic and pushed the button down. The writing was sharply illuminated by the green crystal. Drake leaned in for a closer look. "I don't know that language," he said, squinting. The letters scored into the red brick were like runes, crudely carved with an unsteady hand. In an almost dreamy fashion the Doctor began to recite,

"It slumbers in the deepest well,

Dark and secret, secured to hell,

It came against us from the night,

And sought to extinguish all our living light,

But the Lonely God came from above,

And trapped it underground,

There it lay a-waiting, imprisoned and tightly bound,

Beware my children, it lies there still,

Biding its time, where there's a will,

Eight, six, four, two,

It's awake and waiting for you,

_You cannot run,_

_You cannot hide, _

_The Darkness hunts with silver eyes…" _

The Doctor's voice trailed off and dissipated into the musty air, a strange taut expression on his face. Drake glanced from the writing to the Doctor.

"What is it?" he squeaked. The Doctor backed away from the wall, shaking his head in… what? Disbelief? Denial? Fear?

"How?... I buried it deep… It shouldn't have been able to escape. It can't have. It can't have!"

"What can't have?" Drake asked quickly, his heart thrashing with borrowed tension, "what did you bury?" The Doctor turned his rapidly widening gaze on him.

"Something bad – no, scratch that – something very, very, very bad. I thought it was asleep but Alban must have woken it. But did he go looking for it?"

"What?" Drake demanded, half-drunk with anxiety. "WHAT did you bury?" The Doctor glanced at him and answered quietly,

"The Darkness."

* * *

Before Drake could ask the next obvious question on his lips, the Doctor spun round and whistled. There was no response. He whistled again. Doyle didn't answer. Immediately the Doctor broke into a run. He rounded the corner with Drake close on his heels and skidded to a stop. The wire continued onwards and snaked around the next corner but the Doctor's attention was drawn by the door set into the brick work. What really caught his eye was that it was ajar. With a quick motion to tell Drake to be quiet the Doctor carefully pushed the door open.

It was a large room, clinical in its design; a few papers were lined up neatly on a table and one lone bulb burned in the centre of the ceiling. It cast stark shadows that bluntly sliced along the walls. The Doctor advanced cautiously inside and looked about. A large square hole was cut in the floor; a heavy, iron cage-like covering was propped up beside it. The Doctor crossed to it and carefully peered inside. A jolt of recognition shot through him as he saw the chained man. "Bodie!" he called delightedly. "Are you alright?"

Bodie looked up, a sarcastic expression on his face. "I'm bleeding marvellous," he said drily. He lifted his manacled wrists as Exhibit A and said, "You lot took your bloody time getting here! I've been getting very bored." The Doctor cast his gaze down – estimating how deep the well-like hole was. Drake started searching for a ladder they could use, ducking in and out of the shadows. "Have you seen Doyle?" he asked as casually as he could (not wanting to alarm Bodie) "he seems to have disappeared." Bodie laughed at the Doctor's painfully obvious worry.

"It's ok, he already found me. He said he was checking the next room for something to get me out of here." As if by magic, Doyle appeared, lugging behind him a grey collapsible ladder.

"Found it in the other room," he explained breathlessly at the inquiring looks, "Alban isn't there." Grunting, he heaved it over to the edge of the hole.

"Hurry up Doyle," Bodie moaned, "I think I've lost feeling in my arse."

"Mine's fine," Doyle said with a twinkle.

"Oh stop competing."

"I'm just savouring the moment."

"Of what? Having more feeling in your arse than mine?" Doyle rolled his eyes.

"No," he said in the tones of speaking to an idiot, "of rescuing _you_. Makes a nice change."

"But whose fault is it that I have to rescue you?"

Doyle was saved from answering as he finally managed to unfold the ladder. "Watch out," he ordered as he started to manoeuvre it towards the hole. Drake stepped forward to help him and discovered that the ladder was far heavier than it looked. Eventually they managed to lower it into Bodie's prison in a way that it wasn't going to crush him. It wasn't tall enough reach the top of the pit. Bodie just watched them with a burning impatience. Doyle wiped his hands on his shirt and asked, "Anyone have any lock picks?"

"Not lock picks," the Doctor said, brandishing the sonic screwdriver, "this." He swung his legs over the edge and inched himself onto the top step and began to climb down. The Doctor splashed into the hole and began to sonic Bodie's restraints. "Somebody keep watch, Alban could arrive at any every second. It's gonna take some time to get these off." Bodie groaned. Doyle glanced at Drake and motioned to himself.

"I'll do it," he said with a small apologetic smile, "Might be better." Drake nodded in agreement and stationed himself beside the hole. Doyle crossed over to the door, his gun clutched in his fist.

"Are you nearly finished?" Bodie asked after about three minutes.

"No," the Doctor muttered, "hold still!"

"Sorry," Bodie replied sheepishly. His wrists were starting to ache from the strain of holding the manacles up and he was desperate to be able to move about freely again. Gritting his teeth he tried to contain the tremble that was seeping into his muscles. The Doctor hissed out through his teeth and called to Drake, "Can you come and help me with this?" With a quick glance at Doyle to check whether he could cover the room by himself, Drake scrambled down the ladder into the pit.

"What do I need to do?" he asked quickly. The Doctor handed him the sonic and began riffling in his pockets humming under his breath.

"Doctor…"

"I'm busy Bodie, please don't interrupt," the Doctor absently rebuked him.

"Doctor!"

"Bodie!" Drake looked down.

"Doctor!" he yelped. The Doctor glanced over at him.

"What is it Drake? You know it's very hard to concentrate when you lot are yelling at me and my socks are soaked through –" he was on the last syllable when the meaning of the sentence hit him full on. He looked down in a panic. As if that was the cue, water suddenly began to rush in from the sides, climbing rapidly to their thighs.

"Get the cuffs off!" Drake cried, almost throwing the sonic back to the Doctor. The Doctor seized it and the buzzing resumed with a frantic pace.

"Drake! Get out!" Bodie yelled at him. Doyle spun around at his friend's voice. Adrenalin pumping through his body he rushed over to the pit, pushing his gun into its holster. He nearly made it.

Before his disbelieving eyes the iron cover smoothly fell on top of the gap and locked with a hydraulic hiss.

Doyle tore the last half a metre like his feet had wings, and grabbed at the cold bars, yanking with all his strength. They refused to budge. He tried again, his muscles screaming from the exertion. The water had risen to their chests and the cold shock of it made them all gasp. The Doctor stabbed the sonic at Bodie's restraints in a final, desperate move. They clicked open. Bodie shoved the manacles away and scrambled to his feet. The water was still rising quickly.

"Unlock the bars!" Drake spluttered frantically. The Doctor directed his device at the metal and swore.

"I can't!" he choked out, "it's deadlocked!" The water was lapping at their chins now, each drop lethally reminding them of their impending doom. Doyle wrenched at the cover for a third time, pain stabbing up and down his arms.

If he couldn't remove the bars then the Doctor, Bodie and Drake were going to drown.


End file.
